Five Days Later
by clair beaubien
Summary: Set in S7's "Three Weeks Later" between episode 2&3. Dean and Sam in Rufus's cabin.


A/N1: Set during S7's "Three Weeks Later" between episodes 2 & 3. (Seriously, there should be a law against, "Three Weeks Later" when there's so much going on that we want to see.)

A/N2: this could be a sequel to "3AM at Rufus's Cabin" or a prequel to "Coming With" or it can be read all by itself. Whatever you'd like.

* * *

What's the point of having time off if I can't sleep in?

OK, so the reason we're taking time off is that Sam's head's bashed in and I've got a fractured leg. Not exactly a vacation. Still, it'd be nice to sleep in, even a little, but my internal alarm nags me awake at dawn.

We're at a cabin that belonged to Rufus. I'm on the couch, lumpy cushions and all. Sam's on the bed just behind me. He's asleep, he spends most of his time asleep. It's the only real relief he gets from his five-day nightmare migraine.

Bobby's not here. He went out yesterday to check on his house, check on Jody, pick up supplies. I told him to go. Now that I'm sort of OK moving around in this cast and Sam's sort of alert and oriented whenever he's awake, Bobby deserves at least one full night's sleep not having to worry about us.

I try to be quiet getting my day started but quiet is hard with a hundred pounds of plaster on my leg and a crutch cut from ironwood. The cabin's chilly so I light a fire in the woodstove. I eat a bowl of cereal then get as far as boiling the coffee and burning the toast when I hear the garbled moan that's Sam's best attempt at my name whenever he's first waking up.

It takes me longer than I like to get to him. He's propped on a pillow on top of a folded blanket with a rolled towel under his neck. His eyes are closed and he's got his gimp hand hovering over them.

"How're you doing, Sammy?" I ask and get another inarticulate noise. He lifts his undamaged hand and I take it to help him sit all the way up. "Bucket's still here if you think you're gonna hurl."

He nods and doesn't let go of me until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, curled over like it's the only way he can stay upright. He puts both hands over his face. _"Stupid headache."_

"Here, take some more Tylenol." The bottle is on the little table right next to the bed so it's easy for me to reach. I prop myself on the crutch and open the bottle and Sam makes a fast, vague wave at me.

"No –"

He's got more to say but I'm not in the mood to hear it, "_No_ 'no'. Yes," and he peels his hands away long enough to give me a squinty look.

"What?"

"Just take the pills."

He grumbles but takes them with as little water as possible from the bottle stuck under his pillow then goes back to his curled, painful, hunker on the side of the bed.

"Think you could eat something?" I ask.

"Dean?"

"I'm here, Sammy. How're you doing?"

"Are we alone?"

"Yeah, Bobby's gone to lay in some supplies." I'm in the middle of wondering why Sam might want to know where Bobby is when I remember his unwelcome guest. Maybe he's double checking. "Yeah, hey – it's just us, you and me. Nobody else."

He nods and 'hmmms' and doesn't move.

"Something to eat?" I ask him. "Got some toast over there."

"Burned?"

"Black just the way you like it."

"I – yeah – thanks."

I thump back over to the counter to get his toast. He says burned toast is easier on his stomach, but I don't know if he says it because it's true or because he read somewhere that it's true or because burned is the only kind of toast this toaster seems to want to make. But it's the only food Sam eats so I'm not going to poke.

As I'm getting him the toast, he pushes to his feet and starts walking in the general direction of the bathroom, one hand pressed to his temple like he's trying to keep his brains in his head and one hand half-reaching out like he needs to feel his way across the cabin.

"Hey – hey, hey, what do you think you're doing?" I ask him and he risks his brains leaking out long enough to wave that hand at me and mumbles something that's probably supposed to convince me he's not about to fall flat on his face. He keeps walking.

I'm not really at ramming speed so he's in the bathroom and shutting the door while I'm still on my way to intercept him. Nothing sounds like he's falling down or throwing up, which is good because I couldn't help him with the first and he wouldn't let me help him with the second. So, I wait where I am until he opens the door and makes a slow path to the couch.

"You want to lie down?" I ask and he mutters at me, something else I don't understand, and pretty much pulls himself down onto the couch, pushing my blanket out of the way and sitting at the far end.

He looks half dead with his black eyes, pasty skin, and dirty hair. He needs a shower, we both do, but he needs it worse. He's hardly been out of that bed since we put him in it, and he hasn't changed clothes since I managed to help him change into his pajamas four days ago.

"Toast?" I offer him and hold the plate where he can reach it. He squints at it and takes a slice, bites off a corner and chews it like he's afraid of cracking a tooth. He presses his hand against the side of his head again.

"Bobby?" he asks.

"Getting supplies. He'll be back later today."

Sam nods and 'hmmms' and carefully chews another bite of his burned toast. I watch him, waiting to see what he's got planned next, if he'll want to get back to his bed when he's done eating.

He squints up at me. "You – sit? Gonna sit?"

"Not if you're planning on going anywhere else anytime soon."

"What? No – I wanna – I just – I just wanna sit. Somewhere else. For a while."

Yeah, even before five days of 24/7 bedrest for Sammy, that bed was in pretty rough shape. The mattress – and probably the sheets and pillow case – is probably older than me. The couch isn't in much better shape, but until Bobby's back with the fresh bedding that I made sure was on his list of supplies, Sam deserves a break from the dust mites and ancient blankets.

And I wouldn't mind having him sitting next to me, kind of alert and sort of oriented, even if only for a few minutes.

"All right. Well, if you're sure you're not gonna need me to help you move for a while, yeah, I'll sit."

He watches me maneuver onto the sofa and even lifts a hand towards me in case I need it. I'm not sure how much help he could be, but I appreciate the offer. He asks, "You okay?" when I'm landed safely.

"Yeah. Just hard moving this thing around," I tell him, tapping my knuckles on the cast.

Just hard moving through losing Cas, nearly losing Sam, thinking we might've lost Bobby, losing what was essentially our home into a steaming crater, not to mention Sam's hallucinations and the Big Bad we're trying to stay even two steps ahead of.

Yeah, moving anywhere, any distance, even metaphorically, is hard.

"It's all gone?" Sam asks. He's looking at his hand, his injured hand. I should probably change the bandage. In another day or two the stitches can come out.

"What's all gone?"

"Bobby's?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's gone."

He nods. Maybe he was hoping that'd been another hallucination. "Do we take Bobby on the road with us now?" he asks.

Like '_we'_ will have a definite say in anything Bobby decide to do now.

"Yeah, we do."

Sam sighs and stares at his hand and sighs again.

I have to ask him.

"You – uh – seeing anything?"

"No." He shakes his head. "The – the – " Maybe he can't think of the word, he waves his three-quarters uneaten toast towards his cracked skull. "This pain seems to be enough for now."

"Small favors, huh?"

"Yeah. I guess."

He stares at his toast, swallowing a couple of times like just looking at it is making him nauseous. He closes his eyes and pushes out a breath like he's bracing himself then takes another bite. It takes him a few seconds to start chewing.

"You want something other than toast?" I ask him. I try to remember what's in the cupboards and ancient fridge. "We got ramen noodle, peanut butter, American cheese." Sammy shakes his head at all of it. "Is there anything you think you can eat? I'll call Bobby. We'll get you whatever you want."

"I just want to go back to sleep."

"Okay." I reach over to grab my crutch to get to my feet to help him move back to the bed, but Sam's got other ideas. He scrunches over a little then lays himself down with his head on his arm on the arm of the couch. He pulls his feet onto the cushions next to me.

"You got enough room there?" I ask, even though Sam has hardly had enough room anywhere since he turned seventeen. I get another mutter, another dismissing wave. He's still got the toast in his hand.

I tug my blanket out and spread it over him, then, "…here, trade you…" I offer my pillow and hold my hand out for his hardly-eaten toast. We make the swap and Sammy sets the pillow the long way, settling his pounding head on an edge of it then holds the rest of it in his arms.

I'm hoping he drifts off asap, hoping he gets another long reprieve from his killer headache. He seems to be, he closes his eyes and his body untenses, minutely but noticeably.

After a minute or so, though, he sighs.

"I miss Bobby's couch," he says.

I look around the cabin and see everything that it isn't.

"Yeah, so do I."

The End


End file.
